


Fertile Ground

by Blake



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Alcohol, Canon, Comeplay, Daddy Louis, Dom aftercare, Drug Use Mentions, Dysphoria, Fertility kink, Gender Identity Issues, Jealousy, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Name Calling, Other, Pregnancy Kink, RBB, Vignettes, Zouis mentions, babygate, happy ending!, harry cries a lot, imperfect kink negotiation, insufficient aftercare, no mpreg though, polyamory mentions, stunt talk, tender dom louis, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 00:38:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15327900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Harry wonders if Louis knew that Harry had a button about making babies for him, or if they both just stumbled into it. Or if Louis secretly really wants to get him pregnant—and why does that thought make Harry feel like the hottest-burning thing in the universe?---Or, Harry doesn’t know what comes first: the lies that shape his want, or his want, which shapes the lies. He only knows that there’s lies, and want. And Louis, of course.





	Fertile Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Phoenix made [this incredible moodboard](http://horsegirlharry.tumblr.com/post/176004116788/fertile-ground-by-blake-newleafover-harry) for this story. I had to share.
> 
> Also special thanks to Jen for being the best editor ever and @silverfoxlouis for reading it over for me!

“Better stay like that, keep my come in you,” Louis warns. Harry responds to the gentle, guiding pressure of the hand on his arse more than to the words. He’s a little too far gone for words, fucked wide open and full of come, leaking hard into the miserably soft pillow his hips are pressed into. Plus he’s been up for twenty hours recording, performing, getting drunk and then sober and then fucked. He might pass out before he can come. But not if Louis’s hand stays on him, willing him into existence.

Louis laughs, probably just as delirious. Harry can hear him cleaning himself off with one hand before he adds, “Else we won’t make a baby,” and laughs some more.

Harry’s whole body erupts in shivering heat. “Ah,” he squeaks, maybe in pain at how hard his cock flexes against the pillow, or maybe at the thought of Louis getting him pregnant. Or maybe both because all of those things are related. “Shit,” he hisses, so desperate for the relief of coming or sleeping or sucking up all of Louis’s come and making a baby with it.

“Shit,” Louis echoes right behind him, still with laughter in it, but nice laughter. They’ve been together for three whole years. Harry knows what Louis sounds like when he’s astounded by the discovery of some new depth of what Harry wants from him. And there has been a lot of depth to explore.

There’s a thumb on his hole. Harry presses his hips back against it, trying to take it in, groaning happily at the painful crimp in his arched back, but Louis doesn’t let him have it. Harry licks the sheets he’s drooling all over, clenches his arse. He’s stupidly empty. Except he’s _not_.

The laughter in Louis’s voice is replaced by a breathlessness that sounds like the edge of a walking path crumbling and spilling down a cliff; it makes Harry’s stomach drop like the ground was pulled out from under him. “Like being stuffed full of my come?” Louis asks, which isn’t new. They’ve well established that Harry _loves_ being stuffed full of Louis’s come. Then, “Gonna give daddy a baby, baby?” which is new.

Harry is full-on groaning hoarsely like an animal and fucking his pillow, completely out of his mind. It isn’t fair. Louis is twisting up this baby-making stuff with _daddy_ stuff, with _come_ stuff, all of which drives Harry wild. They’ve joked so many times before about _making babies_ , with Louis waggling his perfect, kissable eyebrows, the both of them laughing about how gross straight sex is. But this feels _different_. This feels like the first time Louis tied him to the headboard, except that Harry didn’t _ask_ for this. He feels zero percent prepared to process why Louis talking about heterosexual, fertile sex has his hole clenching hungrily around the lube and the load that’s already inside him. “Fu-uck,” he cries, rubbing his face all over the sheets.

And the quiet wonder that’s currently undermining the reprimand in Louis’s voice isn’t helping him feel any less overwhelmed. “Haz, baby, you’re letting some of it out.”

“ _No_ ,” Harry moans, horribly upset by the thought of letting Louis’s semen slip out of him. It injures a pride that always used to feel normal until Louis started talking about _babies_. He can’t even tell if he’s being told the truth or just being teased, he’s so indistinguishably slick with sweat, spit, lube, and Louis that he has no hope of sensing a trickle. He twists his neck around to try and _see_ , but the sight of his own arse (clenching and pushing up to the sky, like all the muscle he recently put on is solely for the purpose of keeping come inside him long enough to—) has him gasping into the sheets again at how hot and pathetic and desperate Louis gets him.

“No? S’okay, Haz, I can stop,” Louis whispers sweetly, ready to back off. Harry wants to cry, he feels so taken care of. And he can’t even do something as simple for Louis as keeping his come inside long enough to—

“Push’t back in,” Harry begs, hot, pathetic, desperate.

Louis’s hands are shaking, but they’re still the steadiest thing in the universe as they gently land on either side of his spine. “All right, love,” he murmurs, petting and cooing at Harry like he’s a startled animal. “I’ll give you my fingers, sweetheart,” he goes on, softly kneading his way down to Harry’s arse with one hand. He’s always one step ahead of Harry, giving him what he needs, bringing him down from his overwhelm before he even realizes how far he’s gone, honing in on his reactions to every fucking thing like a hawk. Harry breathes in through his nostrils for the first time in what feels like hours and notices how his throat is burning. “But just ‘cos you’ve been such a good boy,” he adds, and it means, _not because I want your biologically impossible babies_ , but it sounds to Harry like, _but only because you’re tired and weak and not as capable as I am of talking this through right now_.

Harry weeps, gently and silently, into the sheets as Louis slides in where he’s still so wet and ready. The tears are a mix of gratitude, relief, and the usual weird disappointment that’s almost indistinguishable from relief when Louis pushes him so far and now it’s time to come back down. Louis wipes Harry’s face dry with his free hand, slowing down until Harry nods in consent and encouragement to go on. He steals a tear-blurry glimpse of Louis’s perfect face, the attentive blue of his gaze, and sighs.

He drifts softly closer and closer to climax, to the end, guided by Louis’s fingers, which are always one step ahead of him. _Louis’s_ always one step ahead of him. Knows which buttons to push and when before Harry even knows that they exist. Harry wonders if Louis knew that Harry had a button about making babies for him, or if they both just stumbled into it. Or if Louis secretly really wants to get him pregnant—and why does that thought make Harry feel like the hottest-burning thing in the universe?

Harry imagines some magical chemical reaction happening deep inside him, imagines being used as a receptacle for Louis’s genetic material, and he comes.

When they curl up for sleep, Louis rests his palm on Harry’s lower abdomen, just as always. It makes Harry’s wrecked body thrum and his prick twitch against the sheet.

\--

A few weeks later, under the pretense of casual conversation that Louis inevitably sees through, Harry mentions that he used to stuff pillows under his shirt and play pregnant when he was a toddler. He thinks that he might have told Louis this at some point in the past, but he hopes it will have new relevance now. Because he hasn’t forgotten that night, even though they got thoroughly redirected from discussing all _that_ after Louis had confessed a desire to wrap his legs around Harry’s chest and get fucked up against a wall, which had taken a lot of practice, extra time working out, and a lot of thwarted fucks that turned into painful amateur massage sessions involving Louis’s hands on his back and Louis’s cock between his cheeks. During a few of these massages, Harry’s thoughts drifted to how Louis would have to massage him on his side if he was carrying Louis’s babies. Eventually, he decided it was time to bring it up.

After they talk, Harry is bent in half, begging to be filled up, and he says the words _knock me up_ for the first time, almost coming from how hard Louis’s next thrust hits him.

When he starts rambling about how good Louis’s sperm probably are (and how good he is with babies, how strong his genes are), they both seem to realize in the same moment how awkward it is that they’re doing this while Louis’s mum is pregnant, prompting them both to burst into sweet laughter, Louis’s cock thrumming deep inside. And maybe neither of them can trace the inspiration of this _thing_ back to anything concrete and not-weird, but it doesn’t matter because after Louis has fucked and sweet-talked him to the brink of oblivion, they both come when Harry clutches the sweat-slicked muscle of Louis’s flexing arse and moans, “Gimme...gimme a Tomlinson baby.” And after, they both laugh again, exhausted, into their kiss as their breath comes back to them, slowly.

\--

Sometimes, after they’ve fucked, Harry pretends to have just remembered that he forgot to take his birth control, and Louis will try to suck his seed back out of him, like venom from a snakebite, like something that could actually do _damage_. Sometimes, in the middle of a fight, they’ll pause to say that they still love each other, that they can’t wait for things to be normal so they can just adopt a million kids. Sometimes, the fight will taper off, and Louis will give Harry a side-posture massage, as though he has potential babies inside him.

Sometimes, Louis will come inside him ( _take it, take it all, fucking gonna knock you up, give it to you_ ), and in the heat of the moment, Harry will climax thinking that he’s full of Louis’s come and then grow sad when he reaches down to feel nothing but lube because they’ve been using protection more often, and it’s not to avoid making babies. It’s because their lives have gotten so hectic that using a condom saves them a couple of precious moments of cleanup. It’s because they’re apart so much of the time, and Harry’s a sloppy drunk and can’t always remember if he used a condom with whatever guy he slept with in a lonely stupor, and they don’t have time to get tested constantly. It’s because Louis’s sad. It’s probably not because Louis doesn’t want to touch him, but sometimes, that’s what it feels like.

\--

For Christmas, Louis gets him a pair of jeans with a stretchy maternity panel. Harry opens it in front of everybody, and the mortification as everyone realizes what they are makes him feel fiercely hot in a nostalgic sort of way. Louis has never had him unwrap his lace panties or miniskirts or sex toys in front of his family, but he’s done worse, and Harry’s blood remembers fondly.

Louis rubs his face with his hand as he makes eye contact with Harry from across the room.

Of course, all their family members coo over the gift as if it’s an innocent promise of an innocent future full of children who did not come into their lives through sex. Harry’s aware that their families are reading this visible humourous cue that they’re still very much committed to each other as a declaration that their relationship is one hundred percent repaired. Which isn’t exactly true, but Harry likes to be swallowed up in the energy of it at Christmas.

Also, he knows that Louis wants him to actually wear the jeans, probably with Louis’s mouth attached to his nipple. The waistband is probably stretchy enough to pull down his arse in the back so that he can ride Louis’s cock in them.

Harry drinks a little too much doctored-up eggnog, blushing guiltily every time he thinks of all the actual mothers in the room and the miraculous experience they share that he has reduced down to a good time in the bedroom.

When everyone moves onto wine, Louis plucks the glass from Harry’s hand. He leans in close to whisper that it’s not good for the baby, circling his free hand over Harry’s lower back where it’s sorest. It’s an absolving reminder that Harry is not the only person in the room who thinks it’s hot when Louis keeps his legs strapped up in the air until he can get a second load in him. He smiles at Louis’s drunk-flushed profile as he calmly sips Harry’s wine.

Louis slips him some prenatal vitamins before bed, and they don’t have to talk about how being around family brings out Louis’s nurturing side because they both already know.

\--

By the time Louis’s fake-baby is announced, Harry’s a confused mess over the whole thing. Babies, gender, living in the present versus living for the future: the lot of it.

They’ve fought about the fake-baby a few times. They’ve had angry silences over it more often than that. But they’ve laughed about it more than anything. They’ve both agreed that it’s the best option, and they’ve gotten high enough times to come up with multiple brilliant ideas to make it more bearable. A joke.

But Harry’s still fucking jealous of the fake-mother of Louis’s fake-baby. Because people believe it’s real. They believe the story because Louis being an _absent father_ and a _one-night-stand_ kind of a bloke (when the only other person he’s ever slept with outside of threesomes is now the only ex-member of One Direction, thank you very much) and _straight_ is believable. But Louis knocking up his partner of five years is not-believable. In fact, it’s scientifically impossible.

So it’s not _just_ a joke.

“What if you get me pregnant, Lou, fuck, _Lou_ , what will people say? They’ll know you’re the father,” Harry whines, flat on his back and craning his neck to hide his expression against the headboard. His stomach drags down to meet the push of Louis’s cock in him as he contrives the scenario that Louis forgot a condom, but they’re both so desperate for each other that they’ll risk an untimely pregnancy just to get off. It’s not his proudest moment, but he’s hard as fuck, and Louis’s stubble is scraping the curve beneath his pecs, his gasping breath gusting wetly across Harry’s nipples, which are sometimes more sensitive if he imagines them being more sensitive. He should probably tell Louis everything that he’s thinking.

Louis grunts as he grows tired, “...Fucking know you’re mine.” Quicker than Harry can track, Louis grabs a fistful of his long hair and tugs it down until Harry is wincing at the stretch in his neck. “Womanizer Harry Styles, knocked up ‘cos she’s such a slut for my cock.”

Harry’s throat locks down tight and painful at the pronoun slip because he’s just so fucking confused lately. The gender shit and the baby shit don’t usually coincide because they’re _separate_. Mostly. Harry tries to keep them separate, anyway, and Louis respects it, of course, because he’s perfect (aside from not telling Harry what he _needs_ so that Harry can _give_ it to him). (And aside from fucking Zayn, the _one person_ Harry didn’t want him to fuck. It was a properly effective manipulative bargaining chip, though: Harry ended up being the one to break and request that their relationship be a monogamous one.)

Louis pulls out and flops down onto his back, panting, eyes closed. Harry gathers his energy around the gravitational pull of his confusion and gets up to straddle Louis and sit on his cock. He keeps his cock-positioning hand back there, clutching onto the sweaty, tender inside of Louis’s knee for leverage.

Louis’s eyes are still closed, but he fits his hand over the small swell between Harry’s pubes and his navel.

The problem is that Harry worries that every single one of his kinks is a fungal infestation growing out of a wound. He worries that he’s creating his own image in the shape of a god that’s constructed by the world’s perception of everything that Louis has. A pretty girl. With long hair. A baby.

It’s not much evidence for his personal self-loathing conspiracy theory, and on most days, he feels empowered and excited that they’re so close to earning their freedom, excited to deal with the mess of the end, no matter how much real-life shit they’re going to have to cope with, no matter how many relationship fights they’re going to have.

On most days, he feels like the secret that’s giving shape to the lies in order to make them more believable.

On weak days, he feels like the shitty scrap of truth that’s had so many bones broken by the lies that he looks just like them. Which means that Louis shouldn’t love him any more than he loves the lies.

Louis fucks shallowly into him with shaking hips. Harry tries to get him deeper, but their timing is off. They aren’t talking anymore; Louis’s eyes are still closed, and Harry’s trying to bite back sobs as he punishes himself by thinking about the depth of his pregnancy problem, his gender problem. They aren’t just sex things. He cries about how beautiful pregnancy is when he’s drunk. He cries about not being able to give birth. He cries about being perceived as a misogynist when he does everything in his power to listen to every woman in his life more than he listens to himself. Sometimes, he cries about having a penis, and he doesn’t even have the time to figure out what that means. All he knows is that Louis is there for all of it, when he has the energy, and he takes Harry’s cock perfectly at the right times, and he treats Harry like he doesn’t have a cock at the right times.

All he knows about himself is through sex with Louis.

He feels Louis come inside him, then he frantically strokes himself to climax, thinking about Louis getting him pregnant on a drunken one-night stand.

And then he cries.

He’s smearing snot all over Louis’s neck, scraping his eyelids across the stubble there. And Louis’s come is spilling out of him, down to waste away in the thatch of Louis’s pubes. It makes Harry cry even more.

“What is it, love?” Louis asks. He sounds fucking exhausted. He doesn’t sound like he wants to know what Harry’s crying about.

But Harry tells him anyway. “I should be the one carrying your baby.”

Louis’s hand flops down onto Harry’s back. Harry suspects that he still hasn’t opened his eyes. “I know, Harry.” A pause, a weak stroke up Harry’s back, and then, “You said you were good. Why didn’t you stop me when I asked?” He sounds frustrated. He’s giving, giving, giving, but all Harry can do is try to take more, without even asking ahead of time. They have an accord—one that Harry requested to avoid heartbreaking nights that felt like unwarranted desertion—about communicating honestly. And Harry hasn’t exactly been honest about needing Louis to fuck every single one of his identity-confusion insecurities into oblivion with a series of internal fantasies. Louis had nothing to do with Harry bringing himself off to the thought of being Louis’s fucking baby-mama.

Harry knows that this misunderstanding isn’t Louis’s fault, but he can’t help but feel that he’s just as innocent.

“Daddy,” Harry whines through his tears, even though he knows it’s a terrible idea, will only end badly. Asking for Louis to take control when he’s this worn-down is like asking to build a pretty sculpture fountain during a drought.

Sure enough, Louis tenses up beneath him. “What do you want me to do?” Louis asks, words spilling out listlessly on a single sigh, like the come dripping out of Harry’s hole. Not productive.

“Give me a baby,” Harry pleads, the desperate words falling out of his mouth. It’s like asking for a second planet Earth during a drought. He doesn’t even know what he wants—Louis somehow getting it up for a second round to fuck Harry into submission while he sobs and feels sorry for himself the entire time? Louis would hate that, hates not having clear consent. The very thought of wanting something that would upset Louis disgusts Harry, makes him sob and feel sorry for himself.

Louis turns over onto his side, furrows in his brow and a tight curl to his body, no room for a little spoon. “‘M’fucking tired.”

Harry knows this. Louis has way more on his plate than Harry does at the moment. And Harry loves taking care of Louis almost as much as he loves being babied by him. But Louis doesn’t need baked goods and foot rubs; he needs _time_. Patience. Things that Harry can’t keep faith in when he’s feeling like less than a human being over his inability to conceive babies.

His dick swings like an all-wrong pendulum as he crawls over Louis to stand on his feet. “I’d switch places with you any day,” Harry says through gritted teeth, and, to some extent, against his own will. It’s the lowest, most pathetic blow, a repeat from their worst fights. It doesn’t even have meaning; it’s a weapon, not art. He’s throwing all he’s got in a pitiful attempt at self-defense. Anything to avoid Louis simply growing weary of him. Anything to keep the blame on external things, or else on Louis.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Louis grumbles, hiding most of his face between his arms, the way he does when he’s dodging an early morning wake-up call.

It’s fucking absurd because they live together. They share one hotel room. Harry doesn’t know if he can stay on the other side of the bed without misfiring more barbs, or worse, making more attempts to seek reassurance.

But he _knows_ things are better. They’ve been so much better lately, even though the external shit has been uniting against them. The external shit always makes them stronger. Tomorrow, they’ll wake up, and Louis will have endless patience for him. They’ll sleep this off. He’ll force-feed Louis melon chunks for breakfast with his bare hands, and Louis’s eyes will crinkle. They just need sleep.

He lies on the other side of the bed, facing the wall, and grinds his teeth. Eventually, he manages to force himself to laugh by inventing a new outfit for their stupid rainbow bear. Louis doesn’t respond to his laughter, though it doesn't sound like he’s sleeping. Harry will tell him about it in the morning.

When the alarm wakes Harry up, the first thing he feels is Louis’s palm pressed against the bare skin of his abdomen.

\--

Harry’s scalp burns in perfect heat when Louis grabs a fistful of hair close to the root because there’s not much more than that. His other hand is inside the front of Harry’s silk slip, cradling the shape of his pec. Harry’s breath hitches at the tug on his scalp as he tilts to look down at Louis, who smiles at him like he can read his mind. He’s always one step ahead, knows what kind of fuck Harry needs. Knows every step of Harry’s imaginary menstrual cycle, even though it has nothing to do with the moon and far more to do with what the press is saying about him that week. Knows by the weight distribution in Harry’s body when he needs to be impregnated, just as Harry knows by the weight distribution in Louis’s body the second that he needs to be dicked down, like a humidity snap at the start of a storm.

Louis knows just how to pin Harry’s hips so the come will sink in deepest, knows the perfect amount of reprimand to put in his voice as he makes Harry swear not to waste his sperm.

And Harry knows how to smother him with affection and gratitude afterward. He thanks him for giving him baby Tomlinsons until Louis giggles. He straddles Louis and rubs his face over his scruff until Louis squirms at the tickle of Harry’s hair, which is starting to grow out again.

Harry has finally figured out that it doesn’t matter why he wants long hair or short hair or to be pretty or to have biological babies. Maybe it has something to do with what Louis is supposed to want, or maybe it’s shaped by the actual desires of one person named Louis Tomlinson. Both extremes seem unlikely, but Harry has decided to accept both possibilities in order to fully accept the mess that is the much more complicated truth between those two things. He’s even considered the possibility that it’s all a spineless attempt to evade responsibility for the misogyny of his public image.

But Louis has been there to challenge him on every point, and to understand and love him through all of those conversations.

Harry can’t stand keeping his smile from pressing against Louis’s for a minute longer. He turns his head until Louis releases his hair, and then he lowers his body over Louis’s, pressing his chest into that firm palm as his slip slides off his shoulder.

Louis gasps. It’s such a gorgeous, breathless event that Harry is moved to stillness. He looks down into the open ocean of blue eyes that look at him the same way they did nearly eight years ago, only with a frightening depth of knowledge and a terrible vulnerability to match.

“You’re going to make such a great father someday,” Harry whispers, just loud enough for the words to travel the short distance between their lips.

There’s a lightning strike in Louis’s eyes, and his mouth twists as he visibly brings himself back to the headspace he’d been in _before_ he let Harry come. Harry tries to shift his weight to put a silencing finger over Louis’s mouth, but he moves too slowly. “Yeah, if you ever manage to do something _useful_ with my sperm.”

Harry nods, still grinning, still stupidly in love with this silly boy he met eight years ago who wants to give him everything he’s ever wanted. And who happens to _be_ everything he’s ever wanted.

“That’s not what I mean,” Harry giggles, even though he won’t rule out the possibility that he’ll be able to do something useful with Louis’s sperm someday. Science is amazing.

Louis’s eyes soften again. Harry loves every line at the corners of his eyes—stress and cigarettes, sorrow and age—and he wants to kiss them, but he knows that Louis would intercept his lips with his own. “What, then?” he asks, looking at Harry’s lips because he knows his every thought.

“When we adopt, you’re going to be such a great father,” Harry repeats. He’s trying to talk through his tears because they’ve talked so much about adopting kids, but they’ve never talked about it just minutes after Louis has pumped him full of come in their weird, elaborate impregnation play. Not with smiles on their faces, anyway. It feels like a new level of strong vulnerability for Harry. It feels like taking care of Louis.

Louis’s smile gets watery, and then his eyes do.

Harry kisses a tear away from the lines at the corner of his eyes.


End file.
